The Touch
by pilight
Summary: Mike crosses a line he didn't know existed. As close to #Bawson as I'm going to get.


Mike Lawson and Ginny Baker were studying batters in preparation for her next start. She had the pad in her hands and swiped between video and stats with an ease only millennials like herself could muster.

Mike was in awe of the way she handled the technology, along with so many other things about her. Sitting next to her his heart was beating a mile a minute, skipping one every time she happened to look in his direction. He was sweating, breathing much too hard, and had the beginnings of an uncomfortable situation in his nether regions. He knew he had to talk to her about it, but this was not the time.

Ginny was oblivious to all of this. She couldn't feel his heart, of course, and she chalked up the sweat and heavy breathing to his age and the workout they had both done earlier in the morning. As for the other, it didn't occur to her to look for that. She had never thought of Mike Lawson in the way he couldn't help think of her. She saw him as a mentor, someone to help her become a better ballplayer, and as a friend. A platonic friend. Sort of like Evelyn, except older, wiser, and with a huge repository of baseball knowledge. "I want to see this whole sequence, the one where he grounds into the double play." She was locked in, focused on nothing but her preparation.

Mike was barely looking at the screen. He was looking at her. Her perfect dimples. Her lithe figure, impressive even in uniform. The way her hair cascaded over the graceful line of her neck. Almost involuntarily he let his hand brush it lightly, a touch so soft no woman he knew would feel it.

That was the end of their session.

Ginny turned sharply to her catcher and gave him the most venomous glare he had ever seen. "Did you just touch my hair?"

"Well, I..."

She sprang from her chair. "You did! You touched my hair! Don't EVER touch my hair! You have no idea how much effort it takes to get my hair passable every day. You rubbing those dirty, calloused, catcher hands all over it means I have to wash it. I don't have time do all that when I'm starting tomorrow. Have you never been around a black woman before? I swear to God, if you do that again I'm going to borrow one of Sonny's guns and shoot you in a place you don't want to get shot. I can't believe you!" She threw the pad at him and stormed out. It hit the wall, smashing the screen as Mike stood there, mouth agape.

He was about to go after her when Blip came running in. "What was all the yelling about? Is Ginny alright?"

"She's pretty mad at me."

"What did you do now?"

"I touched her hair. I should go apologize." Mike started to walk.

Blip stopped him. "You touched her hair? Man, you never touch a black woman's hair. Don't you know that? Evelyn and I were married and had two kids before she let me touch her hair. No apology in the world will make that right."

"What do I do?"

"Right now, you stay away from her. Murder is a very real possibility if she sees you. Come with me."

They went to Oscar's office, not to see the general manager but for Rhonda, his assistant. She was one of the few women in the building who understood the relationship between a black woman and her hair.

"Rhonda, we need you to talk to Ginny."

"Me? What for?"

"Mike touched her hair. We need you to talk her down."

Rhonda gave Mike a look only slightly less spine chilling than the one he got from Ginny earlier. "Where is she?"

...

Ginny got hit hard in her start the next night. She went the whole game, or the four innings and change she pitched anyway, without talking to her catcher, just as she had gone the entirety of game day not speaking to him or looking in his direction. After getting pulled, she realized she was going to have to straighten things out with Mike. She couldn't stay this angry and play well.

After the game she showered and dressed quickly so she could catch him before he left the park. She went in the locker room. "Mike."

"Hey." Mike had texted her an apology earlier and gotten no response. He considered apologizing again, but her still pissed off tone suggested it was the wrong move. Better to let her take the lead.

"Come with me." She led him into her dressing area. "Do you see all this on the counter?"

Mike looked at the area in front of the mirror with befuddlement. There was a bewildering array of jars, clips, clamps, bands, pins, combs, brushes, dryers, irons, plastic caps, and several items he'd never seen before and could only guess at the function of. There were also countless bottles, some with spray nozzles and some with pointed tips on top. It took the entire five foot counter to hold it all.

"My hair is not like yours. I use all of this every day to make my hair look decent."

"Your hair always looks better than decent."

"Shut up. You're not going to get on my good side right now. Any time my hair gets dirt or oil on it, like from someone's hands, it requires extra work. I don't want to spend any more time on my hair than I already do. I need that time to work on my game."

"I understand."

"No, you don't. You never will. I don't know what white utopia you grew up in that you didn't learn this as a child, but you don't touch black people's hair and you especially don't touch black women's hair."

"Got it. Anything else I shouldn't touch?"

"Get the hell out of here."

...

Mike's thoughts were a jumble as he started the drive home. What was all that stuff? Did she really use it on her hair every day? How was he unaware that touching black hair was taboo? When she calmed down would she start wondering why he touched her hair? He wasn't ready for that conversation.

Eventually all his thoughts coalesced into one, a thought so powerful he said it aloud without thinking; "She's so beautiful when she's angry."


End file.
